Journey book
by o4o86
Summary: Lavi backstory. How he physically and emotionally becomes part of the Bookmen Clan, who he was before that, and eventually, what the heck the Clan really is. Pre-series, WIP that may or may not connect with present events.
1. Part 1

**Title: Journey book  
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**Disclaimer:** I do not own D. Gray-man or any of its characters.  
**Pairing:** None  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Lavi backstory. How he physically and emotionally becomes part of the Bookmen Clan. Pre-series, WIP that may or may not connect with present events.  
**Warning:** I took much liberty with this! Unbetaed :(. If someone would like to beta for me I would be very very grateful.  
**Word Count:** 3,532 so far.

**LJ Version:** lf-maggie(dot)livejournal(dot)com/13555(dot)html

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_"We are bookmen, we do not interpret, merely record. We are not remembered with the passing of time."_

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He awakens slowly with a feeling of hollowness, starting from the extremities of his fingers and toes, and ebbing its way to his core in curling tendrils. There is a void in his chest cavity, forceful as if he'd been abruptly pulled back into a dying body. _Don't, it says. This is mine._

But the words don't mean anything and he's forgotten them as soon as something else, in his head this time, is clawing, howling, and threatening to burst. _Don't you dare forget!_ Shouting at him, shrill with fright and anger.

_...Forget what? _

And even as he's wondering this, with slight agitation in his delicate state of consciousness, the words fade quietly; erased as a retreating echo leaving only raw emotion and the void-nothingness still in his chest. Not separate now, but a fierce confrontation of the two, clashing head-on within him.

_'Breathe, exhale,'_ someone, an external voice, coaxes and he tries but his lungs feel tight with fluid or maybe the air is too warm, too thick.

With each beating of his heart, he could feel the void sensation eating away and winning in its battle against the violent energy, to a point of climactic understanding in this game. He feels a jolt of pain and shudders, arching his back and snapping his head skyward, coughing but at the same time filling his lungs with enough oxygen-rich air for every capillary in his bloodstream—until the battle is over. Hollow void and angry chaos both removed without a trace, and there is nothing but a short-lived moment of peace.

_'Wake, Child',_ commands the same voice from earlier, louder this time as if closer but he knows it's only because he is truly beginning to awake. His external senses are returning, all too fast, fumbling inelegant and conflicted.

_But I can't see, can't speak, and can't move voluntarily._ His hands grasp at rough fabric unconsciously and he knows he's lying on a bed: tangled sheets and hot, covered in sweat.

_'What?'_ he struggles to question, but it comes out in awkward little gasps and murmurs instead.

Everything is _all too real—_the sun on his skin is warm, casting little shadows against the hairs on his arm; ticklish. There is wind, gentle and cool, carrying the sweet smell of cedar and forest moss, the cry of sea birds and the scent of ocean waves, wet beach stones, sand, and faint traces of morning tea. Entirely new, entirely _more._ He realizes the memory loss, or rather, the state of intended no-memory. But no human senses could hold this degree of sensitivity; never mind externally, but _internally_ as well, he was suddenly vastly aware of his body from the precise movement of blood-flow in his circulatory system to each connection of joint and fragile tendon in his musculature.

When his mind returns it is like an explosion of sound and colour, too loud and too many shades, moving too fast: still photography reeling through space like a forced electric current, unleashed.

He screams; these are not his memories—this is the history through time. Stop-motion images, each frame of each scene playing meaningless through his mind. But he could _see._ Oh yes, he could see every detail all too clearly. Eyes open wide now; the edges are even sharper.

He touches a hand to his forehead, gingerly resting it just above his eyes and testing this first voluntary movement. When he is certain that he was indeed awake, breathing, and _seeing,_ he slowly collects himself into a sitting position and begins to take in the physical sight of his surroundings: the singular bed with orange-coloured sheets, damp and wrinkled from all his thrashing, various fraying carpets and rugs lain over rough cedar floorboards, patterned tapestry hanging off the walls, old and grey with dust; stacks of paintings leaning against an antique bookshelf, cluttered and tilted as if they would topple with the slightest touch; mirror to the left, entirely out of place, too fancy as if from a Queen's bedchamber, and small open windows, mostly facing the seaside with blue-painted shutters thrown wide apart...

_Sea cottage—a little abode by the sea. _

And there was the man whose voice he must have heard: a little old thing with scroll and ink-pen in hand, sitting on a three-legged stool at the foot of his bed staring at him with not an inch of curiosity, but as if he were a child who'd been caught stealing from his father's house.

"Your reawakening is complete," announced the old man, dark painted eyes unfeeling. "Took longer than anticipated but you're a full apprentice now."

He listens blankly, not knowing where to start.

"Go clean yourself." Terse, as scroll and pen are set aside to toss him a tattered towel.

Hesitantly, he reaches for it and is immediately in awe of the stringy yellow texture grazing his arm, surprisingly soft. "Where—"

"In the back there, to the right," tilting his head in indication, the old man's eyes never leave him. "No door but there's nobody else here besides me. And now you."

He gets up too fast and has to brace himself against the bedpost, movement uncoordinated and legs clumsy as if he's never used them a day in his life. Trying again, he all but collapses back into the mattress, hands clutching at the bedpost for support—_why is it so difficult to walk, Old Man?_

"One foot at a time. Place it in front, then lift the other one. Don't get ahead of yourself."

He feels silly and wants to say, 'I know _how_ to walk.' But clearly his body has forgotten.

Stumbling and partly feeling his way along the walls, he has to be careful of his footing, mindful of the cluttered objects piled here and there across the floor. He almost steps on a black kitten appearing out of nowhere, darting around his feet like it's some sort of game and he isn't actually physiologically disabled.

Too many questions to ask and he doesn't know where to start. So he doesn't ask any.

"You're doing well, Child. Take it slowly."

He'd like to turn and nod, just to be polite, but his concentration capacity is not yet at the level of multi-tasking. He could hear the rustling of movement, however, and the sound of bed-sheets being stripped.

It takes him a good 15 minutes to reach the bathroom, and it isn't so much as the walking with his _legs,_ but the proper correlating of everything else—aligning the shoulders, the hips, bending the knees, keeping and shifting balance appropriately. Why isn't it coming naturally?

He rests against the sink, tired and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Pale skin rosy with exertion, high forehead and long, pointy nose; he brushes a lock of fiery red hair out of his eyes and freezes, stepping back in shock.

Trembling slightly, he brings his hands to feel around the edges of where his right eye _ought_ to be.

_... How is it possible?_ His vision is perfect through _both_ eyes, but a large, puffy bandage was unmistakably taped over his right eye-socket, completely shielding it from sight. He begins to pick at the tape, lifting the corners of the cotton and tugging carefully but urgently.

_Searing pain; tiny fibres of cotton-padding adhered to his flesh. _

Breathing heavily, he stops and presses the tape back down, holding it there and waiting for the pain to pass. It's obviously not ready to be removed, yet. He looks around, pauses, and tries to think.

_...It's not like, I can't see..._ he reasons, studying his reflection in the mirror once more, _-through- the material... _

Very disconcerting but again, too many things requiring an explanation in the last twenty minutes and he simply lacked the energy to dwell on any more of it at the moment. Upset and shaken, yes, but what he needed most right now was a nice, warm bath. Hands on stained porcelain, he runs the tap and crawls into the dirty-looking tub. _Think later--_leaning back and closing his eyes.

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_End part 1._

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**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? I feel like I'm playing with fire here, and it's burning my hands a little. 1,312 words already written for Part 2, but needs some major tweaking.


	2. Part 2

2.

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"When you said 'apprentice', what did you mean?" he asks, and curses because his right eye is hurting like it'd been stabbed by a million tiny needles.

_Accidentally tugged on the cotton-padding, again. _

"Apprenticeship to become Bookman, of course."

_Pain pain pain... _He thinks he sees Bookman watching him, one eyebrow raised and frowning slightly.

_Ah, yes, of course._ But, "What is Bookman?"

"One who stands unbiased, with the sole purpose of recording history."

The words are spoken evenly and disclose no emotion; however, the _watching _has turned into a look of _'Are you stupid?', _or_ 'Are you playing a prank that is stupid?' _and the subjectiveness lingers like there is something to be said, but is being ignored for a lack of better judgement.

Nevertheless, it doesn't discourage him. "What happened to my memories?"

"You don't need them," replies Bookman, attention shifting away from him and back to rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, squinting to read the packaging when he finds what he's looking for. "We do not analyze what we see."

_Oh... really?_ And he needs a moment to process because the heavy, bitter scent of herbal medicine is hitting his nose so hard he's tearing. "Why is there this—this heightened sense of perception?" he asks, ducking under the covers and breathing through his mouth.

"You will learn to train it," Bookman answers, as vaguely as the last. "Sleep now. You need to rest."

-

"Read with your mind, Child. Not your eyes."

It's not as easy as Bookman makes it sound. He's been trying, and his speed has improved but not to the point of apparently, where it should be if he were doing it properly. Mind you, he'd only started about three days ago when the old man had dropped a heavy, leather-bound journal in front of him and said, "Start reading."

Still, he supposed it wasn't as if he _didn't _know what it _should _feel like. He could never forget those first moments of waking—the endless stream of images he'd been forced to see in painfully vivid detail. There had been no consideration involved, only pure absorption straight into the medial temporal lobe of his brain, which is what shouldbe happening right now with these books. Yet, he is unable to transfer the blocks of text, from between the worn and yellowed pages of _Era 217: Period 9,_ seamlessly into his memory without a fractional thought-process.

The amount of sheer concentration makes his head dizzy and his neck ache with prolonged tension. _Enough is enough for this hour_. Heaving a sigh and avoiding Bookman's disapproving gaze, he marks the page with a dry blade of grass and shuts the cover.

_Gentle breeze and lightly-cast shadows from golden rays of sun;_ forearms resting on the windowsill, he closes his eyes, listening to the soft roar of distant waves, bird song, and rustling leaves. He wants to hum a tune that's on the tip of his tongue and smiles, because even though the song is not his, its serenity and beauty eases his current mood.

"Child," the old man calls to him and he offers no reaction. The little black kitten has found her way around his legs again, rubbing her back against his ankles and mewing softly.

"Let me tell you something," says Bookman, placing his pen gently on the coffee table and readjusting his position on the floor cushion to face him at the window. "I am here," indicating the house with a sweep of his eyes, "because the events that I've witnessed in the last era must be recorded. A 'depository' period in our profession, it's called."

The old man says this as if it's as plain as day and he nods once with understanding, somewhat annoyed, but listening with focused attention nonetheless.

"And you, as my apprentice, are here because it is also my duty to raise a successor."

He doesn't miss the sudden, though slight change of tone in Bookman's voice, or the impossibly obvious pause before the last word—_successor._

They stare at each other in awkward silence; the old man is evidently as surprised as he is, forcefully breaking eye contact as he softly utters an _'I see' _in polite response_. _

Fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve, he glances at Bookman and notices that the moment is gone: back to endlessly filling the blank pages of _Era 217_ with neutral undertone and fluid strokes of ink.

On the other hand, he thinks, this little disclosure sequence was more than he could say for the last week and a half. Every question he'd asked had been met with vagueness and ambiguity. The man had a way of making him feel silly, as if his concerns span from nothing at all and that he is simply over-thinking. The few responses with any decipherable meaning however, are curiously accompanied by the same tone of defeat, or bereavement, or something, and eventually surprise—much like with the last sentence.

The greatest question of _'What am I?'_ aside, he was becoming more affixed on the _'Who are you?'_ and _'What are we?'_

"Old Man." He bites his lower lip, unable to hold back his thoughts. "How do we join a side without affecting it?" _And affecting us, and affecting history with it..._

He's being ignored, or so he thinks until Bookman sighs and replies, "That, Child, is the ultimate skill of Bookmen."

-

Late afternoon, he's made rose tea and Bookman is studying him as he studies the Volumes on the shelves. He'd taken the various carpets and rugs out yesterday, gave them a good beating to get the dirt and dust out, and left them in the sun all day till he was fairly comfortable with the idea of lying on them. Legs stretching out on the floor and back to the seaside windows, he has Volume XXIV in hand and the perfect amount of natural lighting without feeling too warm or drowsy.

But he's bored again; the pages of history detailing the war of the last era held no feeling, no differential—simply a logbook created by a machine: flawless encoding but zero understanding. He finds it difficult to take as _real._

Gaze shifting vaguely, he switches between the sweeping motions of Bookman's hands as days in a year are translated into ink on paper, and the pale shadow of curling steam rising from Bookman's teacup. _What is this place..._

"I will explain to you again, because this is important."

He's jerked out of his reverie, shocked but immediately excited with the prospect of talking and _not_ reading, even if the outcome may or may not hold any meaning.

"There is always a certain degree of significance in every action taken, and also a certain percentage of _uncertainty _attached to each significant impact." Bookman doesn't stop writing, the flow of ink unbreaking. "The goal of Bookmen is to minimize such significance so that plus or minus uncertainty, the result is still below 10% significant impact."

He knows he's sitting straight-upright and legs folded Indian-style, hands on his knees, tense—still not fully comprehending. But he doesn't ask any questions yet.

"Ten percent. Because, considering for eyes on _both_ sides," –he's given an indicative look– "the overall significant impact is notably muted."

Bookman pauses and takes a sip of his tea, shutting those dark painted eyes as the hot liquid touches his lips. "In layman terms: do not stand out. Bookmen are no frontline soldiers; we do not need every bloody detail of history, only enough to record _who, when, where, and what. _There is no _why _for Bookmen."

"And what happens if we die? Are we replaced?" It's a valid question, but the crease in Bookman's forehead deepens.

"Do not dwell on the possibility of death. That is not the mission." This time, he can clearly see the old man wanting to add something, but ultimately changing his mind halfway through.

-

Ironically, he's learned that there is no written history of the Bookmen Clan itself, nor are there any references to them anywhere. _"Documentation of Bookmen is strictly forbidden. And should you attempt such foolishness, you can be sure they will find you—there is no escape."_ Yet, by word of mouth the existence of Bookmen to all noblemen, is as common knowledge as the Vatican is to all Christians.

He doesn't really understand it: _surely, certain groups would -not- want the history of their actions recorded?_

"Damn."

He immediately regrets it, turning to take a peek at Bookman who's sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, in the middle of a meditative nap—_was _in the middle of... Now he's awake, and glaring not so subtly.

"Sorry," he smiles apologetically, "I uh... accidentally used too much orange."

He was trying to paint, since the amount of artistic material, including paint pallets, brushes, easel, and canvases littered around the cottage was more than enough to produce a small, private gallery. He's started yesterday, attempting to recreate the blue, white, and golden yellow sea to sky onto a small, eight by six-inch canvas, and surprisingly, it turned out rather beautiful. Even Bookman had to admit that he may possibly have some innate talent for art.

"You are supposed to be finishing Volume L today, not wasting time painting."

He shrugs, too engrossed in mixing the perfect shade of rose—red obviously, with white, a touch of orange, and a tiny, tiny dab of blue. _Perfect._

"You should try this sometime, Old Man. So relaxing," he singsongs. "I'll bet the only things you ever paint are those eyes of yours." And he stops to peek at Bookman again, slightly embarrassed; he was in such a relaxed and unrestrained mood, his mouth was running rampant.

"The paint on my eyes is there for a reason, though I'm surprised you haven't asked," Bookman harumphs, crossing his arms, "since you like to ask about plenty of other inconsequential details."

"What's the reason?" He might as well find out now that the subject was breached anyway.

"You may think of it as a means to 'forget the face'; a mask of sorts," Bookman replies.

_Wear the paint. Forget the face. Only the words remain._

"But that is only one aspect of it."

"And what's the other aspect?" He knew he was afraid of the answer, a little, which was one of the reasons he hadn't asked. Enhanced senses he could accept, refocusing those enhanced senses into a pure, high-speed reading -_absorbing- mechanism, _he could also learn to accept. But seeing_ through _things,even if only at close range, was definitely _not_ normal.

Before Bookman had the chance to answer, he couldn't help but ask, "Are we human?"

He touches the solid black eye-patch covering his right eye, elastic strings stretching over each ear holding it in place; something he'd fished out of one of the chests, treasure chests for lack of a better description, sitting under the bed. He actually quite liked it. _Gives me character. Like a pirate._

"It's different," he continues, back to the concerns at hand; _it can't be human._

Bookman take his time, stroking his chin and seemly choosing his next words wisely. "Yes, we are human. But we are also different..."

He doesn't look impressed.

"Bookmen have been around much longer than the term 'human'," concludes the old man. "Think of it that way."

He's not giving this one up so easily; it was one question he'd been stalling but one that _really _needed an answer nonetheless. "But this," -he points to his eye- "and I know you know what I'm talking about, _can't _be—"

"Our eyes are special," interrupts Bookman, "but you are not ready for paint so we will simply seal one eye, for now."

"But—"

"Child, do not get ahead of yourself." The old man is uncrossing his legs now and standing up, making his way over to where he was painting, with brush still in hand. "The eye will heal in time, and when you are ready, you may paint them as you like."

He thinks he sees a man, with fiery red hair like his own, somewhere in the memories he'd acquired from his wakening. And instead of the dark, oil-black circles Bookman wore on a daily basis, the man had a strip of black painted across his face from ear to ear, over his eyes, and even into his hairline like a tattoo; except somehow, that single memory had begun to fade away to the point where he's not certain if it's a memory anymore—_yet it must be. _

"When will I be ready?"

"The scroll will tell you when the time comes," answers Bookman, laying a hand gently on his shoulder as if to say, _'Let it go for now. Don't think, apprentice, because thinking is useless and gets you nowhere: only questions, questions, and more questions because once you start asking, you'll realize that nothing makes sense. And then the worlds as you know it falls apart. So don't ask.' _

But that's not what Bookman is saying. _It's what -I'm- fearing..._

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_End Part 2._

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**A/N:** I think the way I abuse possession takes 'bring your own subtext' to a whole new level. Which is bad. Someone save me.


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